


Where Loyalty Lies

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also lots of talk of flowers, American Revolution AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa knows where her loyalty lies. It sits firmly with the rebels across the ocean fighting off the oppressive regime of King Joffrey.But of the short man with a crooked smile and a bird sewn over his heart - where did he place his own loyalty?





	Where Loyalty Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [playwhatgoeson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwhatgoeson/gifts).



> For my good good friend @playwhatgoeson. Happy birthday dude and congrats on the job!!!! :D
> 
> [Bit of an American Revolution-esque AU thing (how topical lmao). Didn't really have a plan for this, didn’t really know where this was going for a while, but I hope you like it dude!!]

 

                Sansa watched the men hang.

                She should be  _ disgusted _ by it. The way most of them squirmed when the floor fell beneath them, fighting against their restraints. Hoping, against all odds and gods, that maybe they wouldn’t die. That all of this was some horrid nightmare. That the people  _ cheering _ for their death weren’t real. Sometimes, if they were lucky, the hot tar thrown on their skin burned hot enough to kill them long before they were sentenced to the hangman’s noose.

                But she didn’t flinch as their feet stopped trying to find purchase in the air. Not anymore.

                “ _ Again _ ,” the boy said beside her.

                Another thing she was disgusted by. This boy, this  _ thing _ with wormy lips that never smiled truly unless someone else was in pain, screaming, like they were now. Oh, Sansa hated the boy the most.

                “Isn’t it such a  _ splendid _ sight? 

                Sansa looked away from the bodies floating limply by their necks. His hair sparkled in the late morning sun, lazy curls tied behind his head. A golden crown atop it all. The Lannisters didn’t bother with the wigs like most other nobles – his mother scoffed at them when they suggested the king to wear one. Something about Lions not needing to hide who they were. 

                Oftentimes, Sansa imagined watching this boy hanging. Clawing at his neck, face purple, spittle of  _ Please _ as the noose worked air from his lungs. Oftentimes, Sansa imagined her being the one to pull the lever and watch him fall. “Yes, Joffrey. It’s a shame their necks cracked early.”

                He nodded. Joffrey more than anyone else  _ loved _ it when the men and woman (and occasional  _ child _ , gods help her) squirmed in their noose. The neck didn’t always break. That Sansa learned the second time she accompanied her  _ lovely betrothed _ to the town’s square. Sansa could still see the boy, hardly a few years older than she had been: face purple, lips gasping for air as his feet blindly looked around for something,  _ anything _ to grab onto. He screamed out “Mother–" just before he fell.

                Sansa threw up that day. Joffrey ridiculed her for it. Muttered something about  _ Women being weak _ . She did her best to keep vomit in her throat from then on.

                The next group of  _ rebels  _ were brought up to the platform. Two of them had long-ago accepted their fate, allowing the headsman to affix the noose to their necks, silent tears streaming down their cheeks. But the third – he was brave. Jabbed the headsman in the gut, clambered halfway down the stairs before Redcoats knocked him out with the butts of their bayonets. It was easier for the headsman to tie a rope around him when he was unconscious. Joffrey laughed all the while,  _ especially _ when they dropped and wriggled and – finally – stilled. “When will these fools  _ learn _ . They can’t go against their king.  _ I _ am  _ their king _ .”

                “Of course, your majesty.”

                Joffrey always gave her a wary look each time Sansa made a point of calling him  _ your majesty _ . As if he wondered whether or not there was something behind the  _ platitude _ . There was, of course: a slight of  _ You’re not a true king _ . But Sansa would never admit that that was what her words meant. So she pretended to be a  _ foolish woman _ and smiled. Any act of kindness always made the boy turn away with a sneer.

                Elsewise he’d remind her of how her family struggled under the noose.

                “Hurry up, my lady. I’ve a war council to attend to, and I would prefer if you didn’t make me late.”

* * *

_ Reconnaissance.  _

                That’s what her family asked of her, all those years ago. Worm her way into the Red Keep under the guise of wanting to atone her family’s rebellious ways. Provide them with just enough truth that the falsities weren’t eyed with suspicion. A monumental task that Sansa knew she  _ had _ to do, regardless of what she  _ wanted _ to do. What she wanted: to stay with her family in the new continent, make a home and memories with whomever was left. Life, and thrive.

                What she had to do: spy on the king’s court. On his emissaries, on the lords who controlled his ships and armies and supplies. Who was willing to switch sides. Who was already on the side of the revolution. 

                Charm and bewitch the king of Westeros.

                But now:

_ Survival _ .

                That’s what Sansa had to do now. Now that her family was dead, and she wondered each night in panic if the gods of death would embrace her, too.

* * *

                Sansa wasn’t allowed in the war chamber of King Joffrey.  _ Women _ were too frail for the truth of war. Too stupid to understand what went on during battles, how territories were won and kept. The exception was made for the King’s mother, though it wasn’t a secret that Joffrey scoffed at his own mother. As if she had a choice in being born a woman, either. 

                But on top of being a woman, Sansa was barred from the war chamber for being a Stark. Before her family was hung – her father, her mother, her dear brother Robb – everyone kept a close eye on Sansa. On who she talked to, on how long she took to go  _ powder her nose _ , on whether or not her skirts and hair were done as appropriate for a ward of the King.

                Now with the Starks long gone or long separated from any position of power, the Lannisters didn’t rightly care what she did any more. She didn’t have  _ friends _ . The Starks didn’t have allies, not in Westeros at least. All of the revolutionaries (or  _ Foolish freedom bastards _ , as the people in the old country were used to mocking them) were in New Westeros. Anyone who once aligned with the Starks in Westeros were long dead or hunted. Hung, like the men this morning. Like the hundreds of people that had hung since the war’s beginning.

                No matter. She had her own methods of finding out what was going on in the war chambers, despite being a woman and a Stark. Had her own methods of getting that information out of King’s Landing and across the sea – though it was proving more and more difficult the longer the war persisted.

                “It seems that the cats are chasing mice down in the South. The weather is rather nice, after all.”

                The cook merely nodded as Sansa passed by, too busy with kneading his bread to bother with more than a nod in her direction. Not to mention Sansa was a Stark, a  _ traitor _ – any notion that the serving hands were offering her more than what was necessary would be thought of as treason. Sansa couldn’t bear the thought of another poor soul losing limb or head because of her. 

                She’d learned, in her many years trapped under the Lion's paw, how to conceal her true loyalties. To pray for a win for the rebels whilst schmoozing her king and telling him of her brother’s strategies. 

                Besides, were she to step a single inch out of line, Joffrey’s personal guards saw to correct Sansa. To watch her, even now with the Starks removed from the face of the earth save her. To run back to Joffrey with tales of what she’d done, who she’d seen. Waiting for a single slip-up to give reason for her own head to hang.

                They followed her to the kitchens, followed her  _ everywhere _ in the castle. Unwanted shadows.

                Sansa peppered her information with curiosity: “How are the food stores holding up with the war?” (information on how prepared the Loyalists were: which was  _ very _ . They had the entirety of Westeros to steal crops and men and weapons from. Her allies in New Westeros had whatever they could steal from the corpses of the Redcoats). “How is your family doing back home in the Reach?” (information on how deep the Lion's claws went in terms of their own loyalty back home. At first, all of the old houses who remained in Westeros and hadn’t traveled west across the vast ocean were entirely for keeping the land they had conquered (read:  _ stolen _ )).

                The guards by and large were too stupid to catch the truth in Sansa’s words. Most of them, at least. Ser Mandon was shrewder than most, even if he looked like he was facing the gods of death straight in the eye. Sers Boros and Meryn were plain  _ awful _ , and Sansa never bothered attempting to learn or relay information when they were following her like her own shadow. Not since Ser Meryn reported to Joffrey and his mother of some alleged  _ treason _ , and Joffrey smiled when he asked the guard to beat her. “Wherever her pretty little dresses can hide it.” They were  _ Sers _ as befit the King long before gun and cannon were common. But they were far from Sers in gallantry, in true knighthood.

                It took  _ weeks _ for the bruises to disappear.

                “How are you, m’lady?” a young girl – no older than Sansa – asked her as she finished her rounds of the kitchen. The girl had short black hair that was uncombed, and wide eyes that reminded Sansa of her little brothers. 

                “Quite well, thank you Meg. I do hope your brothers are doing well, too?”

                Meg nodded, not without glancing over at Sansa’s retinue of watchful guards. Sers Preston and Mandon, today. Not  _ ideal _ for gathering information, but definitely not the worst assignment. They pretended not to care about the serving hands Sansa spoke to. But their nonchalant gazes were too focused on not caring, that Sansa knew to be careful with her words. So did Meg.

                “Yes, m’lady. Tren got shot in the new world. But Yon’s been fine. His cat has run amok in the fields, killing his sheep. But would you know that the fish flew out of the river and stopped the cat before it killed everything? And there was a huge black one, too. Yon says they bound it in thorns.”

                “Really?” Sansa said, with a practiced amusement, as if she was humoring a young child’s fantastical stories of talking beasts. Which – in a roundabout way – she was. “I do hope the sheep and fish are alright.”

                Meg nodded again. She scuffed her bare feet against the stone. They were covered in dirt and flour. Her knees – which were revealed, the hem of her dress too short and tattered to go much further than that – had a distinct lozenge pattern printed on them. As if she had been kneeling over her a grate. Were Sansa to brush Meg’s shoulder-length hair away from her ears, she’d spot the same pattern along her jaw. “Yes, they are. But Yon’s not sure if he’ll have enough livestock for the coming winter, m’lady.”

                Sansa fished in her dress for a few copper coins (and a hidden silver one), pressing them into Meg’s hands, closing her own hands around the girl’s. Meg’s were so thin, Sansa could feel the join of her bones. “I know this isn’t much, but hopefully Yon can buy some fish to get through to the month’s end. Winter is coming, and winters are harsh for anyone.”

                Meg smiled sadly. “I hope so too, m’lady.”

                Sansa watched the girl walk back through the kitchens, head low, pretending to wipe snot from her nose. Tears for her imaginary brother Yon, and...whatever she said the other was named.

                From the back, the girl looked an awful lot like Arya. Sansa wondered each day whatever happened to the rest of her siblings. Bran and Rickon and Arya… Rumor had it that across the ocean, the Boltons – who were once adamant in rebelling against the Lions at the war’s beginning, long before that when the King issued unfair taxes – had  _ forgotten _ their alliance and overthrew the fort where her young brothers were hiding. No one was left alive. Nor were they left with their skin on.

                Jon was somewhere in the wilds of New Westeros. He hadn’t the luxury of being a pure Stark – and offered to lead an expedition deep past the mountains into unchartered territory. That was long before the war officially started between the new and old countries. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t know the war was going on until it was over, and the King overthrown.

                And Arya. Arya would still be alive, only because Sansa hadn’t heard any rumors saying otherwise. But no news was just as terrifying as news confirming the truth – because the sort of miseries that her little sister could undergo was a heavy weight in Sansa’s stomach just thinking about. But Arya  _ had _ to be alive. Sansa  _ couldn’t _ be the only Stark left in the world. She just couldn’t.

                “What’s that all about with fish and cats?” Ser Mandon asked, narrowing his eyes when she approached. He gripped tightly to the bayonet slung over his shoulder.

                Sansa merely wiped an invisible tear from her eye. “Poor Meg’s brother and family back home have missed her so, and she finally got word from them. Only wild cats have stolen into their fields and slaughtered their sheep, ate their fish, and left them foodless for the upcoming winter. Isn’t it the most terrible thing?”

                “I don’t care,” Ser Mandon huffed. 

_ Good _ . Sansa had to fight the smile that began creeping on her lips. She wasn’t going to earn a beating today – at least, not because she was spying.

                They walked through the castle, biding their time until the war council was over. Sansa would then need to make another rounds of saying pleasantries to the working hands. It was  _ easy _ to forget that they were  _ people _ . The people who filled their cups with wine, who carted platters of cheeses and meats. The people who shined their shoes or darned their tights. Any news of the war – especially from the perspective of the Lions – was crucial this far out, and could be learned from the men and women and children who lived in shadows.

                “My lord, I take it the council has ended?” 

                Sansa returned from her thoughts. The guards nodded brusquely to a man walking past. The man, in turn, answered, “Yes, though I must warn you the King is in one of his  _ fits _ again.”

                Joffrey’s  _ fits _ meant that he would inflict pain on whoever he first saw. Sansa made sure to take a detour into the gardens or the library,  _ anywhere _ he wouldn’t be. And pray Joffrey went out hunting or somesuch long before she returned. However his  _ fits  _ oftentimes lasted well into the night. Especially now, with the war gone on so long…

                The newcomer was one Sansa had seen plenty of times in the past years. Small in stature, but large in influence – or so she surmised from her spies. Sansa’s shadows caught how easily he phrased plans and ideas to make it feel as though Joffrey or Cersei or any number of influential lords came up with the plan themselves. And he took no credit for any of it. Joffrey gave the man honors after the early win at Breed’s Hill, keeping the harbor of New Westeros open for the King’s troops and supplies. This was perhaps a few months at the beginning of the war, when everyone in the old continent was certain of victory despite the losses they suffered at the onset. A ragtag band of rebels couldn’t win, not with such a victory in Joffrey’s hands. So he gave the little lord a piece of land, and promised him more when the war was over.

                Lord Baelish. His coat was a deep emerald, embroidered with silver paisleys, all of it matching the deep grey of his waistcoat and tights. A collection of silver rings adorned his fingers, too. Next to the Lannisters, Lord Baelish warred with who was the most fashionable. But more than that: Sansa often felt the weight of his gaze whenever he passed her by in the halls, or caught him in the dining hall during meals. There was something wholly unsettling about the way he stared at her. About the rare smiles he shared – none of which reached his eyes.

                After the Battle at Breed’s Hill, Sansa made note to keep an eye on him, paid an extra silver for news of what he was doing in or out of the war chamber. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if he did the same, but with gold instead.

                He gave a curt nod to the guards before eyeing Sansa between them. “My lady,” he said, sweeping into a low bow just for her. A  _ courtesy _ no one else bothered with Sansa, not since she was marked as a traitor. And especially not since her brother’s and mother’s bodies stopped wriggling beneath the noose. The Lannisters only kept Sansa close because she  _ knew too much _ , and hadn’t the proof that she  _ was _ a traitor to her beloved Joffrey. They at least offered noblemen and women the courtesy of  _ proof _ , unlike the poor men who hung this morning.

                But her guards, the serving hands, even Lord Baelish – everyone, in truth, was paid by the Lannisters for that proof of Sansa’s true allegiance. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction of watching her hang for the truth that she wished to see everyone in the Red Keep burn.

                Sansa gave the lord a small curtsy in return. “Lord Baelish.” She couldn’t forget her manners, after all, even if she was in a den of Lions. 

                “Lady Sansa.” His reply gave her pause. He’d  _ already  _ addressed her, and yet he went ahead and addressed her again. And by name. And with the honorific due to her by her birth. It had been so long since someone addressed her as such, without a sneer, she almost corrected him that she wasn’t a lady.

                Sansa never did trust Lord Baelish, and the way he  _ looked  _ at her now, for one, was be reason enough. Standing an inch too close. Glancing at the lacing of her corset, the fine fabrics that covered her arms and chest and legs. The Southron jewels braided into her hair, as the women were wont to do. At least: Sansa told herself the Lord Baelish was merely admiring her garments, being so well-versed in fashion himself. That, instead of telling herself that he was picturing what was  _ beneath  _ them.

                That thought alone made her shiver.

                No. Sansa didn’t trust the man. But the Lannisters trusted him: a lord who had nothing, save for what scraps of land they bestowed him. She’d heard the whispers, the japes, of Lord Baelish. How he was a small man with nothing but his crooked smiles and cunning eyes. Still, with the resounding total of noting to his name, Lord Baelish was allowed admittance to the King’s war councils, was allowed to let his plans be heard even if he wasn’t given credit – and Sansa wasn’t.

                And if Joffrey was in a  _ fit _ , then the war was turning in favor of her people. And Sansa couldn’t pass on the opportunity to learn where the Lions were planning to move their men. 

                “Would you like to walk with me in the gardens, Lord Baelish?” she asked. Sansa was going to go either way, but it would be nice to have the companionship of someone other than her watchdogs.

                The short man seemed  _ surprised _ . By her initiative, or by the simple act of even asking. The jagged crook of his lips grew, collecting to one side of his mouth. It was perhaps the closest thing to a  _ true smile _ she’d seen from him in the years past. “Of course, my lady. How could I say no, especially when the day is nearly as beautiful as you?”

                Sansa couldn’t hide her blush. Empty flattery, of course it was. Sansa would have done to same were she him. Lord Baelish then turned to the guards: “Must you needs accompanying us to such a  _ boring _ location? I’d think your time would be better spent making sure Joffrey doesn’t shoot the cows, or the castle.”

_ A pity he doesn’t shoot himself _ , Sansa thought. 

                The guards weren’t fazed by the lord’s japery. “King Joffrey has instructed us to protect the girl wherever she goes, and with whomever she’s with.”

                Lord Baelish shrugged. Torchlight shimmered off the silvered threads of his coat. “If you must.”

_ Would I need protecting from him? _ She asked herself. And then immediately answered with:  _ Yes, of course I would _ .

                Petyr Baelish was a Lannister man, even if he never deigned to wear a lion on his breast. There was a bird there instead, sewn cleverly into the paisleys. He’d once whispered into the King Robert’s ear, Joffrey’s father. And once Robert died, Lord Baelish began whispering into King Joffrey’s ear. Though not as quietly nor as closely – Cersei was prone to keeping everyone away from her son. She was the one exception to the no-women-allowed-in-the-war-council rule, though with some curses from the men who sat there.

                But as they slowly made their way down the winding corridors of the Red Keep, Sansa couldn’t ignore the clattering of the Kingsguard behind her. Couldn’t ignore how Lord Baelish  _ insisted _ that they leave them alone.

                Perhaps he wasn’t as much of a Lannister man as he wanted the Lions to believe. 

* * *

                The gardens were beautiful, even in late autumn and even in the sparseness of the flowers and trees. 

                Nothing at all compared to the rolling hills of Highgarden, Sansa had heard. One day – when the war was over and she was freed of the Lannister's deep claws, and if she still had her head – one day, she hoped to visit Highgarden. And then she hoped to go back to her siblings in New Westeros.

                “Perhaps they should rename it West-Westeros? Or maybe Westeros _ er _ ?” Lord Baelish japed.

                Sansa kindly smiled. “Perhaps, my lord.” 

                They walked through the gardens, the distinct scent of grass and autumn on the breeze flowing in from the Blackwater. The sun hung low in the western sky – Sansa couldn’t help but think about her friends and family (and true allies, her loyalty) that existed to the west, far beyond the lands of the Reach, beyond the miles of ocean that separated Westeros with the new world.

                A thought crept into her head, the whisper of his asking the guards to leave them alone. Curious of the true sway of the small lord’s own loyalty.  _ Don’t you fool, _ her mind warned her. But Sansa’s mind had been silent, urging her into the foolish arrangement with her  _ beloved golden prince _ all those years ago. Where were the ghostly cries yelling at her to  _ stop _ , to  _ run _ . To tell her family  _ No I won’t leave you _ .

                Oh, they were across that endless sea, lying in dirt and blood. Dead, unlike her.

                Sansa shook her head free of her demons, if only for a few moments. “West-Westeros... “ She peered at the lord from the corner of her eye. “Though a surprise it hasn’t already been renamed to Lannisland, or somesuch.”

                “Hm, perhaps.” Lord Baelish smiled, a truer smile than the infinite she had seen him forced upon his lips.  _ Interesting _ , she thought, looking away.

                “What do you think of roses, my lady?”

                Sansa had been staring at a bush of them, the remaining buds small and wilting. In a week’s time, they would all perish, awaiting the warmth of spring. “They are pretty, especially the ones that bloom in white or lavender.” 

                Lord Baelish trailed a hand down the stem of rose, carefully avoiding the thorns as he went. Sansa couldn’t help but notice how smooth his fingers were, clean and unmarred by the toils of men. Her father and brothers – and Joffrey – had calluses from weapons, had bruises from the labor of working. Lord Baelish’s hands looked as soft as her own.

_ But stained with invisible blood, just as mine are _ . She closed her fingers into fists.

                “True, roses have many shades, some which you might not know until you’ve planted all the seeds.” His hand reached the end of the stalk. Lord Baelish dug his thumbnail into the stem and precisely tore it from the bush, wiping away stray pollen and dirt that had caught onto his sleeve. “For you, my lady.”

                Sansa took it, fingering the small pink rose that bloomed despite the cold. 

                Just like Meg, Petyr spoke in riddles. 

                Sansa lifted the flower to her nose, calming at the scent of it. “Pray tell, my lord, what color would you like to see roses bloom in, if not reds and yellows?”

                The corner of Lord Baelish’s mouth twitched. “In truth, I’m not fond of roses. They could sprout in any color, and in hardly a week’s time they’ve withered.” He glanced backwards to the guards, silently watching them. How much talk of roses did they  _ understand _ , Sansa wondered. Lord Baelish flicked his gaze back to Sansa, that almost-smile still upon his lips. “Although, I would assume roses to be rather upset when stray cats and dogs trample all over them.”

                “Even with their thorns?” 

                “ _ Especially _ with their thorns.”

                Interesting. Sansa knew that the Tyrells had pledged their guns and ships to the Lannisters at the beginning of the war, when the  _ freedom cock suckers _ (as Joffrey's favorite guardsman proclaimed, and often, alternating between cock sucker and cunt) had announced they were tired of the crown’s reign. That was three years ago now, and the war was still taking lives. The Tyrells weren’t the only house tired with how long and cumbersome the war has dragged on. Were the Roses regretting their allegiance to the Lions? Regretting the promise, too, that Joffrey would marry the young Tyrell girl should the Lannisters maintain their grip west, now that Lord Mace must have seen what sort of man his daughter would marry. “ _ When  _ I win…” Joffrey had sneered. At first, no one questioned the King, the might of the Redcloak army. Westeros  _ would  _ maintain their new territory and all the supplies and wealth the lands had. The King would be a fool not to fight for a country as large as all of Westeros. 

                A year passed. Two. Men and women and children on the other side of the sea persisted, to the displeasure of Lions. More and more Redcloaks went across the waters and never came back. A third year went and gone. And still, the territory remained firmly  _ not  _ in Joffrey's grip. 

                The Tyrells, it seemed, were annoyed – and afraid – that Joffrey would lose the war. They had stakes across the sea, too. But to openly defy the King was treason, and no house regardless of how prideful they were, would announce a cut in allegiance.

                So...were the Tyrells planning an underhand revolt to reroute their grains and livestock from Lannister men to the  _ rebels  _ fighting against them with tattered coats and stolen guns?

                And if so, who else was loath of the Lions’ iron reign? 

                That is, if what Lord Baelish was saying could be trusted.

                “Have you heard about poor Yon, Lord Baelish?” Sansa offered. It was only polite to give the man a sliver of knowledge, too. That's how the game was played, she learned. A this-for-that. Exchange in knowledge if one didn’t have the coin to exchange with. Sansa twirled the rose between her fingers, careful of the thorns. She let a thorn prick her once, dig in deep into her heart under the guise of  _ friendship _ . There was still a hole where she plucked it out, bleeding.

                “No, I don't believe I have.”

                So Sansa told the man loosely about the wayward cat and the fish and the sheep. About how the Lannisters were vying for the ports along the continent’s edge, but her uncle the Blackfish landed just in time to stave them off. Sansa realized Meg spoke of the Tyrells, some sort of bond between them and the Blackfish against the Lannisters. All the while, Lord Baelish listened eagerly. 

                A comfortable silence filled the space between them as they continued walking, the only sound the dull clanking of the guards' guns, their boots, their uninterested huffs. Lord Baelish wandered a step ahead, trailing his fingers over the plants that stretched into the path. It was a whisper, his touch. Hardly touching the flowers – and yet, when his hand was gone, they swayed this way and that as if by a heavy gust.

                But not all the flowers. Lord Baelish was a  _ careful  _ in touching whichever flowers he wished (more careful of dirtying the cuff of his coat). Oleander. Eupatorium. Purple columbine. Celandine.

                And with a breath of pause: a solitary red tulip.

                Lord Baelish plucked a strand of rosemary. Sansa watched him twirl it between his fingers before dropping it, watching the flower roll in the wind. As quiet as the breeze that rustled her skirts: “I am terribly sorry for your loss, Sansa.”

                She was so used to people not addressing her with sympathy or emotion, that hearing it laced in his words (whether truth, or false kindness) sounded...wrong. 

                Sansa bit back the emotions that she'd shoved so far down they often choked her in the dead of night. Behind her, Ser Preston coughed. “Thank you for your concern, Lord Baelish. But as you know, my family was nothing but traitors, and they deserved the justice King Joffrey bestowed unto them.”

                She was so used to eating that lie – over and over, sometimes with tears streaming down her cheeks – that she'd gone numb to them. Today, right now, Sansa  _ hated  _ that lie. 

                Lord Baelish looked like he hated it, too. 

                He rounded a corner of hedges then, ignoring perhaps her lie? Knowing full well that it  _ was _ a lie? Sansa quickened her pace, trying to quell the momentary fear that  _ he knew _ . One of the guards behind her yawned, not at all concerned with the panic that constricted her lungs.

                Sansa rounded the corner, too – right into him. 

                “You should know, my dear Sansa,” Lord Baelish whispered, leaning far too close into her, pinning her between the hedge and himself. His breath tickled the shell of her ear. His fingers lightly adjusted her braided hair, fingertips brushing against her jaw. An excuse to  _ touch _ . “I have only ever had your best interests at heart.”

                “What-?” 

                But Lord Baelish removed himself just as quick, fingering a small cluster of white myrtle that broke apart the hedges. Specks of it littered the ground. Loudly, he proclaimed “I don't know, my lady, I can't say I've ever seen Northern lilies before. Perhaps you could show me once the war is over.”

                He hadn't finished the words when the guards’ boots rounded the corner at last. Ser Mandon grumbled – annoyed at all this blithering talk of flowers and cats. He worked at cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his bayonet. Ser Preston, meanwhile, played football with himself and a large pebble. 

                Sansa tried to think of a response to whatever Lord Baelish just said (something about lilies? only lilies didn’t grow in the North) but she couldn't focus on anything save for his momentary  _ untoward  _ press against her. The way his body leaned into her, inches away, the heat of him crossing the gap between their bodies.  _ Aching _ to close it fully. The way his breath tickled her breath, the faint scent of mint. The way his hands – even now – twitched with the memory of her skin. Desperate to feel more.

                Would she want him to?

                “Lady Sansa…?”

                The man in question was staring at her, head cocked, a knowing smile twisting mouth. It made his cheeks stand out, rosy from the breeze off the Blackwater. Almost  _ innocent _ to what he’d done.

                Almost.

                “Yes, Lord Baelish?” Because she could not for the life of her remember what he’d asked.

                He stepped forward, letting his fingers linger and carry the myrtle until they arched towards him. Let go. “I was wondering if perhaps, when this war is over, and the rightful winners have won–" they both knew that Joffrey was far from the  _ rightful winner _ , though they both knew enough not to say a thing about it. "–perhaps you might like to show me what a Northern lily looks like? I’ve heard tale they are  _ exquisite _ to look at and smell. Perfectly pink. And they make a lovely tea with an even lovelier  _ taste _ .”

                There was nothing Sansa could do to conceal the warm flush that spread up her neck and across her cheeks. As bright as her  _ hair _ , if she had a looking glass to confirm it.

                Because there was absolutely nothing about  _ flowers _ in what Lord Baelish was offering. That, Sansa knew. If it wasn’t from the lilt of his words, then it was the wicked smirk. The darkness that shaded mossy eyes. The twitch of his fingers. The small lurch of his body in and out of her space of propriety – reigned in.

                “Perhaps, Lord Baelish.” She licked her lips, her throat suddenly dry. But the rest of her body was aflame. She coughed, trying to hide the tremble in her words. It didn’t help. “Although, a  _ gift _ as splendid as Northern lilies would need a gift from you in return, I imagine?”

                Lord Baelish approached, a single step separating them. Enough propriety such that the guards or unassumed passersby wouldn’t think anything ill was happening between them. After all, what ill could be have from talk of  _ flowers _ ?

                But he leaned forward, just a fraction, just enough to convey that there wasn’t anything at all proper between them. “I've already given you a sweet gift,” he said, brushing his thumb against the solitary rose in her hand. He wasn't careful this time: letting his strokes (hidden from sight of the guards, who didn't much care for the talk of flowers anyway) stray from the petals. His skin was warm, his touch soft. 

                Sansa felt faint. Her blood a loud thrumming in her ears. She felt her body move involuntarily into his light touch, as if asking her, begging her, for more. Despite what her mind was screaming at her not to trust this man. “I–"

                “M’lady!”

                Hurried steps crunched the dirt and leaves. Sansa turned to see a harried serving lady approaching. Sansa felt all of a sudden out of breath. There was a war of thoughts inside her as she watched. Of thanking the gods for the intrusion, and cursing them.

                The woman stopped before them, curtsying. “M’lady. The king has called for you,” she said.

                The hammering beat of her heart stopped. Her blood frozen. Sansa didn't have to know  _ why  _ Joffrey called her for. It was written plainly in the servant’s face: Joffrey was  _ upset. _

                And when Joffrey was upset, well, he  _ did so love  _ the way Sansa cried out.

                She nodded to the woman, who curtsied again and strode away. Sansa watched the woman’s skirts flutter in the breeze. Luckily, her voice didn't betray the fear that coiled inside her stomach. “Thank you very much for the walk, Lord Baelish. Perhaps we could do it another time?”

                “The pleasure was all mine, my lady.” He bowed his head. The mirth that had been so slowly revealed in the lines were hardened, hidden, behind a calm mask. No more of the japing man who brushed his hand against her cheek. Returned was the man who whispered into the King’s ear and plotted with the Tyrells. But behind that mask, Lord Baelish couldn't hide his eyes: grey-green, and full of... _ anger _ ? 

                It was no secret, after all, the way Joffrey treated Sansa. What was secret: how her treatment affected Lord Baelish.  _ Does this man care, truly?  _

                That, Sansa couldn't answer. 

                Except, yes, she could.  _ I’ve already given you a sweet gift _ , he had said.

                Sansa recalled the flowers Lord Baelish had touched as she walked through the gardens back towards the imposing Red Keep. A heavy lump of fear pulled her stomach down.

                Oleander.  _ Be careful _ .

                Eupatorium.  _ Wait _ .

                Purple columbine.  _ Resolve to win _ .

                Celandine.  _ Joy in the future.  _

                Sansa didn’t need to sort through a deeper meaning than what Petyr’s gift was. In summary:  _ treason _ . 

                She spun around, hoping to glimmer the man before he left. Sers Mandon and Preston grumbled as they nearly ran into her. “Keep moving, girl.”

                But she couldn't. 

_ Treason _ .

                Lord Baelish was given lands and honors and wealth for his help in the war (even if the war went on for much longer than the King planned, and looked to last longer than that). He offered solutions to stoppering the rebels’ supply ships from Dorne. He proposed the alliance with the Tyrells at the very start, offering Margaery to Joffrey when Sansa was found to carry traitor’s blood (or rather, giving Mace the illusion that it was his own idea). And against the very hand that offered him those gifts for his service: Treason.

                He stood there amongst the flowers, so out of place in the Red Keep, but welcoming the shadows that whispered across his frame. He stood there, staring at her. 

                There had been another one. A red tulip, caught in the late afternoon sun, burning. 

_ Love _ .

                Lord Baelish was offering Sansa...what exactly? The end of the King that laughed when he sentenced her family to die. The freedom of a new nation across the ocean. The alliance with the winning side (his side), with at least half of Westeros backing him against Joffrey. And: himself. 

                Why? 

                “ _ Move,  _ girl.”

                Sansa looked away from the gardens and the man she knew much less about now. “Sorry, Sers,” she apologized.

                Her feet moved, but she didn't register movement. Her mind was still in the garden; her eyes following the line of shadows that crossed over Lord Baelish's coat, stopped just above his heart and a glittering silver bird embroidered there. What else did Sansa have to lose, anyways? She was heir to darkness, an orphan to ghosts. She was stuck in King's Landing without true friends. She was stuck as the  _ plaything  _ for a King who grew more and more upset with each passing day the rebels held out. And should the  _ freedom fuckers  _ win...Sansa couldn't celebrate when the noose was fastened around her neck, the ground beneath her air. 

                If she stayed, and if she was lucky, the rope would break her neck.

                Tonight, if she was lucky, she would pass out before Joffrey fully unleashed himself. 

                What other choice did she have? 

                Sansa would go up against the might of Westeros – with the vague, uncertain promises and allegiances of a shrewd lord and his wicked smile as her only companion.

                Or die trying.

 


End file.
